Pound Foolish

Efforts to be Pennywise
Fail miserably at this time of year
I fall quickly into the fallacy
That gifts are things; that things matter.
When quietly, I crave nothing other
than a kind word,
a nod toward my existance,
a common smile.
What is it in us that makes us love things?
If I could give them all away, my things,
Most would go to the landfill.
Then, of course, my daughter might want
my jewelry.
My son might want
my camera.
The dogs will want the leftover
half of my Subway Italian sandwich.

As I head to sleep,
I wonder what the world will bring
to you–
you deserve those things so much more than I–
but you don’t want them either.
So, I’ll drive the van outside your window
And you can escape–
Or, throw the things out to me
And I’ll deliver them

elsewhere.

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